Note: I started working on this post a while ago. I delayed publishing it, because it’s about laughing in a cemetery, and the empty void where my heart should be told me that putting that up in the wake of the horrible tragedies we’ve experienced wouldn’t be appropriate. I figured I’d wait until the news…
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, that was well-trodden and safer and less likely to be the stomping ground of rabid raccoons. Sometimes I think Robert Frost was an idiot. And then I realize that no, it’s just people misinterpreting his words. His most famous poem…
Our last trip to Europe took us to Wicklow, just outside of Dublin, for a few days (before we skipped off to Spain on a rather terrifying Ryan Air flight that will henceforth be referred to as Kegger at 30,000 Feet). Rand’s conference hosted us at the Powerscourt Hotel, which is in the middle of…
“Dear god,” I told him when I saw the photo. “I look positively predatory.” Rand laughed. “You do,” he agreed. “You look like you are hunting me.”
Our trip to Ireland occasionally ventured into the land of the cliche. We drank pints of Guinness, we ate lamb stew, and we wondered every now and then if all of this wasn’t simply a show put on for the amusement of tourists. Because, seriously: A potato specialist? In Ireland? (I nearly hyperventilated.)
Our friend Hannah warned us that around the town of Cork, Ireland, people became very possessive of their beaches. I thought I misheard her, naturally. “This bitch belongs to no man-” I said, waving my finger defiantly in the air. (“See? This is why you aren’t allowed to have a podcast.” – Rand)
My endless fascination with two people taking photos at the same time continues. In Ireland, as I was snapping photos, Wil was doing the same (albeit more competently, with an eye for composition and light and all those other things that photographers understand and I do not). Here’s my photo, taken on the side of…
I spend a lot of my waking hours feeling subtle pangs of regret for all the things I should have said but didn’t, for all the tiny little things that I really wish I had done but ultimately did not. I am haunted by the specters of unrealized acts and things unsaid. In my life,…
When we were in Ireland, it rained. Like, a lot. It rained as we wandered through the streets of Cork, and it rained as we explored Elizabeth Fort. After a while, we started feeling downtrodden and melodramatic, weighed down by the grey skies and our sopping wet clothing.
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
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